Deborah Camp (27 page)

What to do
…
what to do… what to do…

Maybe she wouldn’t have to do anything. There was a slim chance that Buck hadn’t recognized her. She thought back, squeezing her eyes shut to recall every detail of his face when she’d been introduced. Cassie Dalton. He’d displayed no sign of recognition. And why should he?

He had known her as Cassie Little. No, not even that. She had been Little Nugget to everyone back in Whistle Stop except for a few close friends. Little Nugget in her fancy gowns with her hair styled and her skin perfumed. Little Nugget flirting with every man who set foot into the saloon. Little Nugget who wore hats from Paris and gowns to match, who drank some and laughed too loudly and even smoked cigars at times, who cussed like a miner and danced like a chorus girl. He would never equate that gal with the woman he’d met today. A woman with a baby, who worked on a ranch alongside her hired men, who was respected by her neighbors, a widow trying to carve out a good life for her only child.

A tremulous smile touched her lips. “He doesn’t know me anymore,” she whispered. “I’ll just stay away from him. No need for me ever to see him again.”

That was true. She hardly ever ran into any of Monroe’s saddle mates. She might see them at a distance once in a while, but that was it. Except for the occasional dance.

“I won’t go to those until Buck leaves,” she said, the sound of her voice lending her strength and purpose.

He wouldn’t stay long. He was a drifter, went where the money was, and the cattle rustling scare would soon
be over. Then Buck would leave and never come back. Then she could live free again and not look over her shoulder all the time. That’s what she’d be doing until that day, looking back instead of forward.

She hated that! Balling her hands into fists of rage, she pounded the feather mattress, releasing her frustration and fear. But then she stopped and ran her palms over the mattress, that place where she had found new hope. She’d given birth in this bed and she had been reborn here as well. Last night.

Cassie eased onto the bed, curling her body, snuggling her cheek upon the pillow where Drew had laid his head. Last night had been the beginning, and today—oh, it could not signal the end so soon!

The pain tightened in her stomach, and she moaned and forced herself to dwell on her blessings. She stretched out, unknotting her muscles and releasing her pent-up fear. She would not give in to it. She would not bow or bend to it. She would be the shadow, skirting past Buck and never giving him a good look at her. He would never remember her because he would never see her! Not again anyway.

Simple. It was so simple.

She released a long sigh and told herself that she was safe again. Just as she’d been last night in Drew’s arms.

“It won’t be the
last
night,” she whispered. “It will be the
first
night. The first of many.”

A few minutes later, she heard the visitors mount their horses and ride away. A few minutes after that she realized she had curled herself into a tight ball again and was clutching Miss Tess. Hugging her doll like a child warding off the terrors of the encroaching darkness.

T
he only sounds in the room were the squeak of the rocker Cassie sat in and the ticking of the clock on the mantel. Looking up from the strips of leather he was braiding for a bridle, Drew saw that Cassie was still absorbed in the ranch ledger lying open in her lap.

He smiled, his gaze settling more comfortably on her. Always working on those ledgers. Guess she hoped to find answers there to problems that had nothing to do with numbers and everything to do with nature and other circumstances beyond anyone’s control. But he admired her gumption. She was a fiesty one.

He was falling in love with her.

Quickly he concentrated on the leather in his hands as a tightness invaded his chest and shortened his breath. He needed to rein himself in, he thought, wishing it were as easy as pulling hard on leather straps until everything ground to a halt. Just stopped. Stopped falling. Stopped loving her. Stopped wanting her. Stopped.

Wasn’t that easy, though. When he imagined not sleeping with her again or not waking up with her, a
sharp pain pierced his heart. Even if he hadn’t made love to her, he would want her. The days leading up to their first night of loving had been miserable, as miserable as the nights he’d spent in prison. Back then someone else had put him in prison, but with Cassie he’d put a lock on himself, on his heart, and that was worse.

“What did you think of that man Monroe hired?” she asked, not looking up.

He shook his head. “That’s what you’re thinking about?”

She glanced at him. “Yes. Why?”

“I was hoping you were thinking about me,” he said, only half in jest. Something in her eyes prompted him to be serious. “I didn’t think much of him, especially when he spit on Ice.”

“He
spit
on Ice?” Her brown eyes widened with concern and she closed the ledger.

“He sure did, and I almost took his head off for it. I would have if Monroe hadn’t pulled me off him and made a fast getaway. Dirty bastard.”

“Why did he do that to Ice? Did Ice say something to him?”

“No.” He laughed shortly under his breath. “It’s a wonder Ice wasn’t all over him in a flash. That boy has quite a temper.”

“Ice always seems to be in a good mood,” Cassie said. “When I think of him, I see him smiling.”

“Yeah, he’s pretty easygoing. I reckon that’s what’s kept him out of jail. He’s got some brothers and cousins who are hotheads like him, but they’re mostly locked up or on the run from the law. Ice can’t stay mad and he doesn’t much like trouble. He avoids it whenever possible.”

“So do you.”

He opened his mouth as if to object, then shrugged and smiled almost shyly. “Yeah, I guess so. Anyway, that Regulator fella asked Ice if he was Indian. Turns out Ice is. I never thought of it. To me Ice is Mexican, pure and simple. But that sharpshooter spotted it right off. Ice said his grandfather was full Blackfoot. That’s when that bastard spit on him. Said a Blackfoot carved out his eye and he hated all Indians but especially Blackfoot.”

“Did he say anything about me?”

“About you?” Drew frowned, wondering where this was leading. “No. If he had, he’d be a dead man for sure. What makes you think he’d say something about you?”

“I… I ran into the house. Andy was crying. I thought he might have said something about that.”

“No, he didn’t. I don’t know what Roe’s thinking of, hiring that man. I guess he wants to spill blood, and that’s what will happen. That man will end up killing somebody. Most likely the wrong somebody, and Roe will be in a peck of trouble.”

She set the ledger on the floor and crossed her arms tightly. “I wish he’d leave.”

“Who, the Regulator?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe you can sweet-talk Roe and get him to reconsider keeping that Regulator around here.”

Her eyes were luminous in the lamplight. “Maybe I could.”

He knew she was baiting him and he swallowed the lure without hesitation. “You want to drive me crazy, don’t you?” He patted the sofa cushion. “Come here.”

She slid out of the chair and went across to him, her
movements flowing like a river. He dropped the leather and took her in his arms. She was already in his head and heart, dwelling in those places like a fever. He kissed her softly and memorized the contours of her face with his fingertips: sandpaper caressing silk.

“If you want to sweet-talk a man, sweet-talk me,” he said, speaking from the dark corner of his soul where jealousy reigned. “I don’t want you to give Roe the time of day. Never again.” He cradled her face in one hand and tipped her gaze up to his. “You hear me?”

“You can love me, but you can’t own me.”

The hard edge in her voice alarmed him more than what she’d said. “You think I want to own you?”

“Sounds like it.”

“I’m having some fun with you, that’s all.”

“So it’s okay if I rub up to Roe?”

“No, it’s not okay,” he said, his fingers moving to her throat.

“I’m having some fun with you,” she whispered, seducing him with her voice and her doe eyes.

“This isn’t fun.”

“I agree.” She turned her head to take the tip of his index finger into her mouth. Her tongue laved it, and a shudder coursed through him to his loins. “This feels dangerous,” she added.

“It is.”

“I tell myself I shouldn’t… we shouldn’t.”

“I know.” He kissed her hair, loving the smell of it, the feel of it against his cheek.

She leaned back in his arms. “Do you think about me being with your pa?”

He shoved the image from his mind. “No. I don’t think of him.”

“Yes, you do.” She trailed a finger down his cheek, her short nail scraping the stubble. “Don’t lie, not even to yourself. Lies will eat you up, darlin’.”

He smiled briefly. “Darlin’. I didn’t think you called anyone that other than Andy.”

“I save it for special people.” Her arms wound around his neck, and she pressed the side of her face to where his heart beat, hard and fast. “So you think of him. But I don’t want you to let that thinking poison the times when we’re together. Me and him didn’t love each other. Not at all. I never felt anything with him.”

“I don’t want to talk about this.” He ground his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut. “I don’t want to hear this.”

“All right. Shh.” Her warm breath feathered his face and her fingers massaged his temples and slipped into the sides of his hair. “But if it begins to bother you—”

“It won’t.”

“It should.”

“Why?”

She frowned and her pale brows met. “You know why.”

“He’s dead and gone, so let him stay that way.” He stroked a thumb across her lips, sealing them. “No more words unless you want to call me your darling again:”

“Darlin’.” She blew softly against the side of his neck. “Kiss me like you love me.”

“Like I love you? Hmm.” He considered the request, then lightly touched his mouth to hers, rubbed gently, lifted away, smiled, then pressed his smiling lips to hers again. “There.”

“Sweet,” she said. “You’re a sweet man.”

“The hell I am.” He kissed her hard then, stamping
her with his masculine need. “Let’s sleep in the loft tonight.”

“Up there? Why?”

“We can make more noise. We can roll around and buck and kick.”

“I’m not one of your horses,” she told him, pressing the heels of her hands to his shoulders and pushing away from him. “My bedroom is fine.”

“No, it’s not Your baby and big-eared Oleta are next door. You think she’s not listening to every sigh, every thump of the headboard against the wall?” He could tell that hadn’t entered her mind until then.

“She can hear?”

“Why wouldn’t she?” He placed his mouth against her ear. “But in the loft…”

“Okay. I’ll get my nightgown.”

“You won’t need it.” He stood, lifting her in his arms. She tightened her hold on him, her hands sliding across his shoulders and back.

“I will need one come morning.”

“Will you shut up and climb that ladder?” He pressed her up against it. “Go on up. I’ll stand here and watch your backside wiggle.”

She blushed. “Keep your eyes to yourself, mister.”

“Can’t” He grinned and enjoyed the view. Her heart-shaped rear swayed from side to side as she climbed the ladder. When she reached the loft, she turned and glared down at him. “Put your eyes back in your head and get yourself on up here.”

“Yes, ma’am!” He scrambled up the ladder and hooked an arm around her waist, spinning with her across the floor to the far corner of the loft, below which
was the front porch. He turned her around to get at the buttons marching down her spine.

“What’s this?” She stared at the blankets spread in the corner. “You moved your bed?”

“It’s more private back here.”

She looked around, noticing that he’d moved the furniture and crates into a semicircle around the roomy pallet. “What have you done?”

“I made a place for us.”

“A love nest.”

“Hmm, yes.” He swept aside the curtain of her hair and kissed her nape. The dress was undone, and he slid his hands inside to cup her breasts. She sighed and leaned back against him, allowing him to gently knead her flesh and tease her nipples through the layers of her underclothes. She reached behind her and splayed her hands against the back of his thighs. Her hips squirmed, grinding on his most sensitive part, and he caught his breath and waited out the spasm of desire.

She was a bundle of surprises, this woman he held. Small and delicate, but big-hearted and tough-minded. And the way she touched him, her total absence of modesty! How he loved her lack of inhibitions! He was grateful that she didn’t hide herself from him, didn’t cringe when he touched her private parts or blush when she touched his.

And yet she was a lady in her gloves and hat, in the respect she demanded of others, in her daily behavior, surrounded as she was by men. No one ever forgot she was a lady.

“My lady,”
he said close to her ear. He turned her around and pushed the dress off her shoulders. He unlaced her chemise, resisting the urge to tear it off, and
eased the straps down her slim arms. A white droplet glimmered on the tip of her left nipple, and he gathered it with his tongue. She shivered. “Tastes sweet,” he told her, then dipped his head and circled her nipple with his lips. He suckled her and she arched against him and moaned.

She melted to the bed of blankets and pillows and wriggled from her loosened clothes. She sniffed the air. “What’s that I smell?” Her fingers moved over the pillows and found the flower petals he’d dropped there. “What is this?” She lifted the crushed blossoms to her nose, and her eyes shone in the light provided by the sputtering lamp, which he’d lit earlier and set on a crate. The wick was low and its fire barely burned.

“I wanted everything to be pretty.” He swallowed and encouraged himself to continue to say what was in his heart. “Pretty like you.”

She lifted one hand, her fingers white and slender, so graceful he thought of a bird in flight. “Drew,” she said, making his name poetry. “Sit here beside me and let me undress you.”